The whole world is now for me divided into two halves: one half is she, and there all is joy, hope, light: the other half is everything where she is not, and there is all gloom and darkness…
Pure and complete sorrow is as impossible as pure and complete joy.
Without Pain, How Could We Know Joy?
The writer’s joy is the thought that can become emotion, the emotion that can wholly become a thought.
Outside of that single fatality of death, everything, joy or happiness, is liberty.
No pain means the end of feeling; each of our joys is a bargain with the devil.
Never had he felt the joy of the word more sweetly, never had he known so clearly that Eros dwells in language.
Excess of joy is harder to bear than any amount of sorrow.
And as, in ethics, Evil is a consequence of Good, so, in fact, out of Joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which are, have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been.